There is a particular magic surrounding the Boston Marathon, I’ve been fortunate to experience it on four prior occasions, 2005, 2015, 2018, and 2023, and this year, 2026, rose the bar even higher. I flew out on Thursday in order to spend quality time with my brother Tim, his amazing wife and my top-tier sister in law, Shannon, and my two incredible nieces, Jenna and Kate in Wellesley before the marathon activities picked up steam over the weekend. Then on Saturday I ventured into the city to meet up with my sister in law, Ecklyn, (Marion’s sister) and her husband, Jason, for lunch and a stroll around the Freedom Trail after checking in at the Expo, and then capped off the day with a marvelous catch up dinner at a delicious Vegan restaurant in Watertown with my dear friends, Kat and Mark, Boston locals and sturdy members of my endurance family tree. Kat and I shared workouts, coaches, and camps over the years, and I had the honor of being part of her crew for her legendary “Swan-Song” competitive performance at UltraMan Canada in 2019. My heart and soul cup was filled to the brim. Honestly, I couldn’t have scripted a better tale over *this* year’s Boston Marathon weekend experience, it was unfussy, relaxed, meaningful, and I haven’t even mentioned the race yet.

Ecklyn and Jason mid-romp along the Freedom Trail on Saturday.

The weather was gloomy leading up to Marathon Monday. However, the forecast called for clear skies with chilly temps for race day, an improvement, but I was slightly annoyed due my history of running the marathon on cold years, (2015 and 2018 were nuts). Obviously we can’t control the weather, so I accepted the fact that multiple layers and gloves were now added to my race kit, but when I walked out of my downtown Seaport hotel on race morning the cerulean blue sky and flashy yellow sun cloaked my shoulders, and then I felt it, the universe was extending an olive branch, the rumors of a tailwind were true.

I booked my hotel later than usual. I wanted to run the Boston marathon this year, but not as much as I have in previous years. In fact, I’ve had a difficult time feeling excited about any races, or any type of competitive athletic goal since my bike crash in November, 2023, and follow up car crash (auto vs. pedestrian) in August, 2024. True, I did build up my fitness enough to run multiple marathons in 2025 while living in Vancouver, but the processes felt rote, hollow, and unimpassioned because I did not have full understanding and control of my body after the injuries sustained in the car crash. I don’t believe I am disabled, but I am not fully abled, my left hand/wrist/fingers are not like they used to be before I was hit the car, and with my faith in cycling and swimming (safely) uncertain, I found myself grasping at straws to do something while living in a scenario with physical, emotional, and logistical constraints. Mercifully, running was possible, but I trained and ran in those races last year in order to hang on to some semblance of who I used to be, while unsure of who I was in the moment, and afraid of how empty my future might become. Hence why I bailed on races I had planned for the end of 2025, (NYC Marathon and the Marathon Project) and beginning of 2026, (Sean O’Brian 50K, Way To Cool 50k), my heart and head were not in a sturdy place to put in the necessary energy to train, travel, and compete in those races.

Somehow Boston felt different. The urge and desire to race it did not fizzle out like it had with the other races, because Boston is different. I considered Tim’s commitment to race it for the second time after battling back cancer for the second time, Ecklyn running it again, the opportunity to spend real time with family, (Shannon, Jenna, Kate, Brie), after being isolated at home after my hand injury for months in late 2024, and then living in Canada most of 2025, no, I would not bail on running Boston, but I knew I needed a method to turn up the knob of motivation to be excited about it, which is why I started writing here again.

I wanted to challenge myself to be accountable with both my training and writing, two core parts of my identity that I’d kept quiet and in hiding for too long; I needed to show up, for myself, and for anyone who wanted to follow along, and I did show up, every week, in my training and writing, and it worked, because when I woke up on Marathon Monday, I was ready and excited to race.

The mile-plus walk to the Boston Commons from my hotel were easy and pleasant. I felt a spring in my step and ease in my lungs because my energy was humming, my glycogen stores were full of easy carbs and my digestive tract was calm, all of the subtle yet vital pieces of the race morning puzzle we are always tinkering with, and while still a about a block or so away from the buses I caught myself smiling and thinking, “Go from the gun and let it rip for as long as possible!” Mind you, as my last post revealed, my training for this marathon was sufficient, but I did not run nearly enough workouts at marathon pace, or faster to believe I could reach, let alone sustain a sub-7:30min. mile pace for many or any of the 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston, I simply did not push myself that hard during this build, yet for some reason I had faith that I could run faster then I trained for *today*. Maybe because I had done it before? This race was the seventieth occasion I’d run a marathon, and I had zero expectations (from myself, a coach, or anyone else to live up to), so why not try? Plus, I figured this might be my last marathon for a while, (maybe ever), so if I blew up, I blew up, I could walk it in if need be, covering 26.2 miles was all I had planned for the day, so I invited my body to give it everything it had because I had nothing to lose.

The travel to Hopkinton high school was smooth, I boarded a bus in plenty of time, and chatted with a kind Canadian gent who was my seat-mate on the bus, and just a few minutes after emerging from the obligatory pre-start porta-potty stop, my wave was called to the starting line. I gobbled my last nibble of pre-race fuel, two Precision Fuel and Hydration chews, and sauntered down the winding neighborhood streets to the starting line. I had three layers on top, plus gloves, but I stripped the top heavy shirt layer just before our wave started moving, lighter than planned, and took off at measured clip among the overstuffed crowd for the first mile.

Since this was my fifth time running the race, I was familiar with the course, and knew that the first thirteen miles are mostly downhill and flat-ish, but instead of curtailing my speed and energy on the quicker early sections of the course, I opted to take full advantage of the absolute joy and FUN I was having, and bank time I would need once the course got real around mile 16 when the infamous Newton hills were upon us.

I ate my first Gu Roctane gel at mile five, and ate another gel every four miles as the race progressed, a fueling strategy I have used since my first breakthrough marathon in 2017, the LA Marathon, when I ran a 3:17, and then alternated taking in water or Gatorade at every aid station, (I think I passed taking in liquid on mile 3, but that was it). My gait felt smooth, breathing was heavy, but calm, I was certainly pushing my effort, but I did not feel uncomfortable, and tried to hang on to that feeling until I ran past Shannon and Jenna near Wellesley. I knew they would be along the course near the same spot they were in 2023, and since I had been running around their neighborhood the couple of days prior, I thought I could pick out that section of the course, however it was about two miles further down the road than I assumed, and I was running on a slight uphill as I approached them, still I managed to keep up my outward appearance of strength and know-how, while inside I was starting to falter. Miraculously, seeing and feeling their cheers was life-giving, and I seamlessly picked up my pace as I trotted by. The false-flat uphill gave way to a long downhill leading out of Wellesley afterwards which helped to prepare mentally for the rolling hills ahead.

I am not a fast uphill runner, many, many people passed while trucking up the hills between miles 16 through 21, (the finale being Heartbreak Hill which covers nearly all of mile 21), but my large body was built to bomb down hills, and I notched up my downhill running prowess on every hint of elevation drop on this course, thundering passed people that inched passed me running up the hills. Thankfully my quads absorbed the spirited impact with glee in the moment, but they took a beating that they would not let me forget for hours and days after the race.

The crest of Heartbreak Hill promises elation and a sharp downhill, a marathoner’s dream combination. It is also packed with throes of pleasantly imbibed Boston College students lining both sides of the street yelling their faces off and reaching out to runners with an aggressive excitement that means well, but could go sideways quickly if a high-five turns into a hand grab and pulls a runner down, I did not witness any such carnage, but the fragility of my left hand is always top of mind, so I made sure to run in the center of the road down mile 22 just to be on the safe side. I was also keeping an eye out for my favorite college boys, my cousin Erin’s sons, Finn, Cal, and Patrick who I knew would be among the Boston College student body cheering for all of us runners. As the rowdy crowd started to thin out further down the hill, I thought I missed them because I was running a bit quicker than expected, but just as I was approaching the end of mile 22, I saw the familiar blazing red hair of Finn to my right, and about 100 yards later, I heard the signature call from Cal yell my name from the left side of the street, it’s times like these that I am grateful for prescription sunglasses, abnormal height, and my signature swinging high-pony-tail.

Cal Regan, screen left, cheering loud! PC: Cal Regan.

The remaining miles of the course (23-26) have historically been the most frustrating to endure on any marathon course, but especially on the Boston course. Once we make a left onto Beacon St. after passing the mile 23 marker, the last stretch feels endless, but it didn’t this year. I could feel my energy waining, justifiably, I hadn’t pushed my physical limits like I had the previous three hours for over three years, and although I had already blown out every whisper of a time goal, I didn’t want to let up on the gas, and tried to keep my pace as strong and steady for as long as I could. I slurped down my final gel, clocked the glorious, and equally annoying landmark on the course to my left, the Citgo sign, (we love to see it, and then hate that we can’t stop seeing it), noticing I was passing it quicker than usual while acknowledging my legs did not have much more to give, which was exactly the point.

Right on Hereford, left on Boylston. PC: Jason Salazar.

The best street corner in running snuck up on me, right turn on Hereford and left on Boylston. I started to tear up thinking about the moment Tim and I made the turn together in 2023, and then I looked down at my watch and saw 3:12:30ish, and smiled, it was just a few seconds off from the time I read on the same corner in 2018, when I was at the peak of my adult fitness, and then jolted back to the moment laying in the ER, crying because at the time I was hit by the car, I was one week away from a last-ditch effort to earn a Boston qualifying time at a local marathon to then run the race in 2025 and earn a reason to visit Tim and his family, but in an instant, that dreamed was dashed.

August 30th, 2024

It felt like a monster crushed me from above. My vision went dark, not black, rather a dark abysmal brown. I could feel the light and warmth of the midday late-Summer sun trying to seep through my eyelids when the back of my body struck against a loud, angry machine, terrified, then accepting I was hit by a car, and that it wasn’t over yet.

Stuck, my shoulders pinned to the hood, both arms trapped in the windshield, my head facing east observing the hum of the 5 Freeway just hundreds of feet away I vowed internally, I will not end here, not like this. I harnessed every ounce of energy to throw the car off of me, believing it was possible to heave it over my head, but in reality, I ripped my arms through shards of glass, tearing my left wrist and hand to shreds while breaking free from the monster. As the car slowed down to a stop, I peeled my body off of it, stumbling on my pummeled left leg and foot to carry me safely to the ground.

The man who hit me did not drive away. I asked him to call 911, but I called them, too. Suddenly, a shadow appeared, a Park Ranger stood in front of me asking questions, bleeding, the 911 operator asked me questions, bleeding, sirens wailed faintly, then louder, closer, bleeding, more people, more questions, repeating my name again, and again, my vision closing in, and then clear, the tourniquets strapped around my arms worked, I could see… blood everywhere.

Hours after being hit by the car in the ER.

I looked up from my watch to try to see my brother in law, Jason, who was standing in the massive crowd on Hereford, I couldn’t find him, but I felt a lift, and knew he was there somewhere.

The last stretch of yards on the course along Boylston are euphoric, yet never-ending. I wanted to run as fast as I could to the finish line, but also stop time, and live in that moment forever. Soon I was over the line, my watch reading 3:16:20ish, exhaling joy and surprise, and saying out loud, “Wow, that was RAD!”

The mile or so walk back to my hotel was slow and frigid, and although I knew I needed a hot shower as soon as possible, I wanted to capture the pride I felt in that moment on *film* before washing it away.

Frozen, happy, and minutes way from the best shower of my life.

For too many months I was overwhelmed with sadness for the trauma I put my body through by doing an activity I love more than most. The sensation of seeing my own body parts in shambles was strange, the sharp and dull pain of the healing injuries relentless for the early months of healing, while scars, stiffness, and numbing nerve-damage serve as daily reminders that I am not the same person I was before the bike crash, and car crash, I am different, inside and out, but I am less uncertain of what the future holds than I was before the race, because I know I can do more than I can’t, I know that I still want to run, and although during this training build I believed running fast was a request I assumed too much to ask of my crippled body, I was wrong. I have long believed that muscle memory is real, but what is even more profound is mind memory. My mind took the wheel as soon as I woke up on race morning, declared it remembered what to do, (completing dozens of marathons over dozens of years) and then it simply asked me to believe that it was possible to do it again, and I did.

After a very long hot shower, and many ingested carbs later, I caught an Uber back to Wellesley to celebrate Tim’s stellar race, (he trimmed three minutes off of our time from 2023), along with our outstanding support crew, Shannon and Jenna.

Tim and I reunited back in Wellesley with matching hardware.

I am thrilled to report that Ecklyn ran a fantastic race as well, in fact many of our fellow runners, (pros and amateurs) ran quicker than expected, the tailwind helped us for sure, but I believe it was the high vibes unique to the Boston marathon that truly flipped the switch. Indeed it was a rare and rad day at the races that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Marathon #70, done and dusted.

The book recommendation for this week is a fun and lively read from Emma Straub called, American Fantasy. I picked it up at LAX en route to Boston because I wanted an easy story to keep my mind off of the races stresses that usually weigh me down, and it delivered on that front, but was deeper than I expected and very well-written. The story is about a fictional 90’s boy band that headlines a cruise, and all of the melee that ensues.